Page 52 of Melting the Ice

Spoiler alert: as far as Brody was concerned, Dean wasalwaysinvited.

Brody flushed and dug his fingers into the cheap cushioning. “Hey,” he said. “I . . .uh . . .watched the game. It was amazing.Youwere amazing, that fumble return . . .” Brody trailed off when he realized he soundedjustlike the girls who always clustered around the athletes at the frat house parties. The ones who gazed at every athlete with a predatory, breathless awe.

And now that’s you.

Dean frowned, and that was when he chose to collapse onto the couch. He looked tired, deep circles and lines under his eyes.

Not for the first time, Brody realized how much pressure he was under.Empathizedwith it. His own situation was bad enough, but he had so many ways he could land easily and softly, if the NHL fell through.

Dean didn’t have those.

His only path was to move forward, inexorably.

“Yeah, except I didn’t get in,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What? No, you didn’t, but like . . .seventy fucking yards, man.” It had looked like a lot from Brody’s perspective.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

Brody couldn’t say they knew each otherwell, but he’d already begun to figure out when Dean was shutting down.

He was doing it right now. Shutting down. Shutting Brody out.

And if Brody didn’tknow, intimately, how and why Dean felt the way he did, he might’ve let him.

“Listen, Dean, you can’t do it all. Not every play, not every game, not every time you step onto the field.”

Dean made a face. “Don’t placate me. Do youknowwhat I’m trying to do? What I’m trying to escape?”

Brody knew he hadn’t meant to say it, from the way Dean’s mouth flattened into a hard line.

“No, ’cause you haven’t told me,” Brody said quietly. But he’d wanted to know. Had almost asked half a dozen times.

“Right.Right.” Dean sighed. “You can probably guess though. Shitty small town. Shitty mom, too interested in drinking at the bar and dragging her flavor of the night home to worry about having a kid. Dad? Nowhere in sight, not ever.”

“I’m sorry,” Brody said, and he understood a lot better now why Dean had been a little guarded at the beginning. Brody had had the childhood Dean had never gotten. The parents he’d probably dreamt of, his whole life, that he’d never had.

“Don’t be,” Dean said. “Made me into the guy I am now. Made me work my ass off. But with that comes this anxiety shit. Makes me worried I’ll screw it all up.”

“You wouldn’t.” Brody believed it, more than he’d ever believed in anything, ever. Maybe even hisownfuture.

Dean didn’t say anything, just shrugged. Like he was helpless to that feeling, when the last person on earth who could ever be helpless was Dean Scott.

“You should listen to me. I’m the smart boy, remember?” Brody teased, and to his delight, the corner of Dean’s mouth tilted up, like he was tempted to smile despite his mood.

“Thought you were pretty,” Dean said, and hewassmiling now, with his whole face.

Damn, Brody thought. And he almost regretted bringing it out of Dean. But not really. Not actually.

“See, you’re smart where it counts,” Brody joked.

“I try not to embarrass myself,” Dean said with a self-deprecating grunt.

“You don’t. You don’t ever,” Brody said, shifting to something more serious.

“Ah, well . . .” Dean looked uncomfortable. “I just wanted to get in, you know? A TD isn’t just a fumble return. It’s a different kinda stat. Abetterkind of stat.”

It seemed unfair, but there were plenty of unfair statistics in hockey, too.

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